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Linda Hogan This is the word that is always bleeding.
You didn't think this
until you country changes and when it thunders
you search your own body
Zeina Hashem Beck This poem is in video format.
Sholeh Wolpé Last night a sparrow flew into my house,
crashed against the skylight and died:
I want to write a love song.
Dunya Mikhail In Iraq,
after a thousand and one nights,
someone will talk to someone else.
Markets will open
for regular customers.
Amal Al-Jubouri —My solitude, to which I always returned
City that kept my secret religion in her libraries
I came back to rest my head on her shoulder
and with just one look, she saw how tired I was
Zeina Azzam On our last day in Beirut
with my ten years packed in a suitcase,
my best friend asked for a keepsake.
I found a little tin box
Hala Alyan You were mama’s; first and only boy, sable eyelashes long as an ostrich. Operatic, I claimed baba, his books and his sulk, first of the unrequited loves. What we took we took unasked.
Elexia Alleyne Maybe it’s the Spanish running through my veins
That’s the only way I know how to explain it
Maybe it’s the r’s rrrolling off my tongue
Darrel Alejandro Holnes In the film, both parents are Mexicans as white as
a Gitano’s bolero sung by an indigena accompanied by the Moor’s guitar
bleached by this American continent’s celluloid in 1948
when in America the world’s colors were polarized into black & blanco.
Lauren K. Alleyne Just like that the day is black
and blue, bruised with hate.
Just like that my skin, black
as fine leather stretches so tight